


Azeotropic

by Winddrag0n



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-Fall, Whiskey & Scotch, WhiskeyBottomWill, courting with whiskey, taking a long time to sort out your feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:53:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24378295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winddrag0n/pseuds/Winddrag0n
Summary: A short examination of Will and Hannibal's relationship revolving around healing, whiskey, and finally moving beyond the past. Written for Fannibal Fest's Whiskey Bottom Will fic roundup!
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 106
Collections: Whiskey Bottom Will





	Azeotropic

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I can't follow directions because the moment I saw the question of 'how much whiskey before Will's ankles go in the air' my gut reaction was 'probably none!'. And here we are.

It had been something his father had said, one of many crude remarks. Will had been young, no more than eight, trying to focus on the diagrams of insects in his book and not the raucous laughter emanating from the men mere feet away. Easier said than done when living in a trailer. “Oh, she was quite a sight,” his father had laughed, taking a swig of cheap beer. “You know what I think when I see a woman like that? How many drinks before I get her ankles in the air?”

That had set off another round of laughter while Will’s nose wrinkled with distaste. He had slipped outside with his book, preferring trying reading by moonlight to staying here just a moment more.

Sometimes, in moments like those, Will had found himself hoping the drink would take his father faster. 

He grew up hating the smell of beer, the stench of alcohol on another’s breath. It had not turned him away from drink entirely, instead steering him towards whiskey, stronger and more expensive, a half-hearted preventative measure when he had been poor. Then he wasn’t poor anymore and had to face the consequences of his actions.

Will drank to forget, mostly. He drank to hasten sleep and hope it made it deeper but it never seemed to make a difference. He was well aware he was careening straight down the path his father had, at least until he slammed head-first into the brick wall calling itself Hannibal.

Time spent in jail, time spent in a  _ coma  _ lessened the grip whiskey had on him to some degree. When he left the man he loved behind to try and live a normal life the claws had tightened, held somewhat at bay by Molly’s concerned looks and soft assurances. Even that did not last. Nothing did.

In the fall over the cliff Will had managed to injure himself so terribly that even the bullet in Hannibal’s stomach proved less urgent. He doesn’t remember much of that time, not really, not until he woke up one day and the sun seemed brighter, the air crisper, and the look of relief on Hannibal’s face when he entered the room open and honest and blinding.

His arm never really recovered; sensation almost entirely returned but its movements are stiff and uncoordinated. When he tries to bend his arm upwards it never makes it past his elbow. Hannibal, seemingly supernatural as always, made a full recovery.

Legs, Will thinks, his legs were unaffected. He has no difficulty bending them up towards his stomach, no chance of missing the feeling of hot skin and firm muscle beneath his ankles. Feeling how they’re jarred with every movement, tensing and curling downwards, securing his position tightly. How much whiskey had it taken him, in the end?

Ultimately, it depends on where you started counting.

It had started the night of his full awakening, a pristine tumbler filled with a finger of familiar amber liquid. Strong flavor, oak and peat and a fruity sweetness. Every night that week it was different, a glass placed beside him without comment. Sometimes he tasted caramel and citrus, sometimes wood and sugar. When he tasted heather root and cigar leaves and toffee apples he finally spoke.

“This one is good,” he murmured, catching Hannibal before he left the room entirely. “They all are, but this one in particular.”

In the doorway, almost imperceptibly, Hannibal had nodded.

Hannibal had been acting almost timid, if it had been something the man was capable of being. Handling Will as if he was fragile, an injured bird that may take wing at any moment. Once Will was healed enough to roam the house- he doesn’t know where they had gone, doesn’t truthfully care- it turned into glasses of whiskey by the fire, sitting in silence and watching the dance of the flames. Hannibal had always had a book or pad of paper, reading or drawing as Will sat and simply thought. Never more than a single glass; the claws had turned gentle, holding and supporting where they had once squeezed and crushed.

If you started counting from there, that first glass of a liquid peace offering, Will supposes it had taken entire barrels of the drink to reach this point. Macallan and Dalmore and Hibiki and Rosebank. Whiskeys he had never even heard of, never even dreamed of existing, all lined up in a beautiful row in the rear of the pantry, safe from sun and heat and reaching hands. Every night, sitting in the evening with Hannibal and the crackling tongues of flame, he had thought and thought and  _ thought  _ until the knot inside him loosened and unraveled, fell down into neat lines converging on a single point.

That night, when Hannibal handed him the drink, he had set it down on the mantle with a shake of his head. “I’m not leaving, Hannibal,” he had whispered, watching as the man finally looked him in the eyes for the first time in nearly a year. “Not anymore.”

The words drove Hannibal to movement, hands curling around Will’s chin, lips fevered and frantic. No more heavy hesitation or loud silences. It drove them  _ both  _ to action, fingers fisting in shirts, pulling and tearing, seeking to remove the final barrier remaining. They stumbled through the house, rutting like animals, allowing instinct to take over, the spark between them to finally catch and burn. It was something of a miracle they made it into the bedroom before the fire consumed them.

And now, Will lays on the bed, legs folded against his chest, ankles hooked over Hannibal’s shoulders, and he laughs. He laughs because if you started counting today the answer would be none, his reservations and uncertainty shattered to pieces in the turbulent sea. He laughs because Hannibal, the man who tried to kill his family, the man who tried to eat his brain, the man who  _ killed their child _ actually stutters and slows and  _ stops.  _ Concern is obvious in his tone. “Will,” he breathes, “is something the matter?”

“No,” Will laughs. “I’m just thinking about how this is the first time in my life that everything feels  _ right. _ ” 

The noise it pulls out of Hannibal is low and broken, more beast than man. Will finds his legs hitched even higher, nearly to Hannibal’s neck, pressed down flat until he’s practically bent in half. The space between them feels electrified and so he arches upwards to press their chests together, rewarded with the feeling of arms around his back, holding him in place. He laughs tears into Hannibal’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” Will gasps, thoughts sliding and slipping as sensation takes over. “For-”

Hannibal’s face turns inwards, cheek nuzzling against curls as it had on the clifftop, and speaks before Will can finish. “Everything has brought us to this moment,” Hannibal murmurs. “Nothing beyond that matters.”

This moment, where they are joined, body and mind alike. Will tilts his head back to face the man he had run from for so long. Hannibal’s lips erase the tracks of tears, gentleness a contrast to the brute force within, ending their journey pressing to Will’s. He can taste the salt and sorrow on Hannibal’s lips, wasted years and blood and regret and beneath it all, he thinks he tastes the spice and smoke of whiskey.


End file.
